Chapter 15 The Ghost Speaks
The Everlasting Wuthering Heights plays on the makeshift screen Scarlett set up in front of the barista and apothecary area.
Arcana that’s what’s going on.
I spin around and try to yank my hand free, but Ren holds firm.
“Sorry,” he mouths. “I’m an ass.”
His gaze burns into me, and I fight the urge to look away. It’s like staring directly into the sun.
Then he lets go. My fingers clench, immediately wanting his touch again.
Full moon tonight, that’s what this is.
“You are an ass,” I whisper. “I’m sure you don’t want to babysit me, that you have better things to do with your time. But this isn’t my fault. I didn’t ask for it.”
An ache bubbles up in my lungs and heat prickles my eyes.
It’s not fair. Everything. Being hunted for some unknown reason.
Life isn’t fair, you know that, Aria.
Ren takes out his phone.
Ren
I’m sorry. I get what it’s like to feel helpless. I shouldn’t have lashed out.
It’s not you. It’s me. I have other problems.
“What problems?”
A gentle breeze ruffles my hair, and I shiver.
A soft smile tilts his lips as he shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders. His alluring scent of amber and leather wraps me in a comforting embrace.
He flexes his muscular arms, and I notice his full sleeve of tattoos—roses and orchids, vines and bamboo shoots—writhing under the stark moonlight.
My fingers tingle. I want to trace the art. Feel his warmth.
Would he let me?
He walks ahead of me and leans against the railing before typing his response.
Ren
I have a younger sister. Celia’s twenty-one. She’s sick.
Concern furrows my brows. The nurse in me needs to know more.
“What is she sick with?”
Ren
Heart problems. Hereditary. LMNA-related cardiomyopathy. It’s getting worse. She doesn’t have a lot of time left.
I’ve heard of this condition from my late night discussions with Blake about his patients.
“She needs a transplant…like you did, right?”
Ren stills. A muscle tics in his jaw. Then he nods.
Ren got injured in the same shootout that killed Blake. Lana told me his heart stopped on the operating table, but thankfully, there was an anonymous donor heart on site that matched him, and they saved his life.
“Is she close…on the list?”
I think about little Grayson, about the many patients in my ER who need organs but are nowhere near the top, whereas some rich pricks I’ve treated before magically skip the line. This is why I want to get my master’s and go for a promotion—to help the people too weak to fight for themselves.
It’s why Blake was a registered organ donor, and so am I.
Fury flashes in Ren’s eyes for a split second, then it’s gone.
Ren
She isn’t. And she’s AB negative with high sensitization.
My hand flies to my mouth. The rarest blood type with lots of anti-HLA antibodies, which means she’s hard to match.
Ren
You see the problem.
“Have they searched the registry?”
The same anger shines in his eyes again.
Ren
You’d think so.
I frown. “What do you mean? Either the doctors did or they didn’t? Do you need me to help? I have connections—”
Frustration slashes his features now, his fingers moving over his phone at breakneck speed.
Ren
No, I’ve tried. I’ve asked The Syndicate to try. All the legal measures were vetted. Nothing.
Legal measures.
“Black market?”
It’s disgusting—dealers hawking life-saving organs to the highest bidder, not to mention the illegal harvesting behind the scenes. I’ve heard horror stories from other hospitals about this occurring. Thank goodness it doesn’t happen where I work.
A deranged chuckle slips out of him. He shakes his head and faces the railing, his shoulders tightening.
He looks so painfully lonely.
I know that feeling.
Slowly, I step up to him and place my hand on his bicep. He pulls in a sharp inhale.